


Brace Yourself

by SomebodyOwens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Pheeeeels, Sexual Fantasy, surprisingly little touching for so much sex, unexpected and elaborate detailing of fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyOwens/pseuds/SomebodyOwens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is absolutely not compiling notes on Barton’s grappling line preferences with a hard-on.</p><p>That would be unprofessional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brace Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> With endless thanks to [sirona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona) for her constant cheerleading, relentless encouragement, and thoroughly on-point beta. This is all for you, bb.
> 
> Credit to charloween for the title and [nerdwegian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian) for her oh-so-encouraging nsfw tumblr tag, the origin of this [very NSFW image](http://nerdwegian.tumblr.com/post/70867335633/maybe-its-the-combination-of-the-shirt-and-the) which got me writing in the first place.

Phil Coulson is absolutely not compiling notes on Barton's grappling line preferences with a hard-on.

That would be unprofessional.

No, Phil Coulson is sitting at his desk with Barton-related notes spread across its surface, resolutely demanding that his dick chill for a while. He managed to survive Barton's frankly showy and not at all fantasy-inducing display of dexterity, designed specifically to intimidate and encourage the newest group of R&D hires; he can keep it together while making notes on Barton's choices from behind a closed door. 

The idea behind the demonstration was sound; Barton had pitched it as a "let me show off a bit, show them how advanced we already are" scenario and Phil was pleased with the plan. R&D had offered up precious few breakthroughs recently. Perhaps a little show, with just the right mix of entertainment and encouragement, would serve as a reminder that they were creating life-saving tools for incredibly skilled agents and might even kick off some new brainstorming.

Phil has seen Barton take out targets while suspended by his ankles, balanced on a guardrail, and once, memorably, while shooting between his own toes. The combination of flexibility and accuracy in Barton's shooting is nothing new. And yet, the simple memory of Barton coiling his line has Phil resolutely thinking his least sexy thoughts and gritting his teeth. 

Alone in his office, Phil is willing to admit that he is still fighting off the last of whatever child-borne plague Thompson had shared after his elementary school visit. The exhaustion and general lack of sleep is business as usual, but it does mean that Phil had to work harder to keep his Agent Face intact.

Despite facing his computer for the better part of a half hour, the only thing he's managed to do is contemplate the elegance of Barton's fingers as he coiled rope and how nice it would be to grab a handful of his ass. A pleasant pair of thoughts, but not productive. The numbers on the budget sheet in front of him keep swimming, and though Phil fights valiantly, the forces of Formula Error finally win. Phil gives in and escapes towards home, dignity (just barely) intact.

Free from the confines of his office and the chance that he will cross paths with a coworker, Phil allows himself a little fun, imagining the weight of Clint in his mouth, his own cock growing progressively harder as he drives. By the time he stumbles across the stoop and up to his apartment, he is seconds away from coming. He kicks off his shoes and pants after resetting the door's bio scan--he's on edge, not careless--and jerks himself off frantically in the kitchen. 

It's nothing fancy, just a fist around his cock and a series of images behind his eyelids. Clint kneeling next to him and jerking him off. Clint's back under his palms. Clint's nipples hardening against his tongue. It's the thought of Clint draped across Phil's chest and clenching around his cock that finally shoves him over the edge and with a desperate gasp, Phil comes across his hand and shirt.

Which means Phil is now sitting bare-assed on his kitchen floor with one hand fisted into the crumpled pile of his pants next to him, the only other garment he had managed to remove after dropping his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He plucks his stained and sticky dress shirt away from his chest and lets his head thunk against the counter behind him. His fingers are sluggish on his buttons, but a momentary struggle and a few wiggles free him from the damp fabric. 

It's not like there's anyone there to judge him. Yes, ok, maybe frantic orgasms while imagining his agent isn't the most professional behavior, but Phil is an adult and recognizes the difference between sexy fantasy and workplace reality. 

Before Phil has a chance to work up a proper guilt, endorphins and exhaustion combine to clobber him into drowsiness. He should probably get off the floor; even a brief nap where he is will leave him with a crick in his neck and unbearably stiff shoulders. Staying put to enjoy the tail end of his orgasm haze means a splitting headache tomorrow, and that isn't a price Phil is willing to pay. 

The rattle of keys in the downstairs lock startles Phil and goads him into alertness, and the chirp of a positive bio scan at his door propels him off the floor. He's managed to pull his boxers up and shove one leg into his pants when Barton comes around the corner, calling out to announce his presence.

"Coulson! Jasper and Maria are having dinner tonight, so you owe me baked goods. He-- Sock garters?" Barton may be frozen by the sight of Phil fumbling back into his clothing in the middle of the kitchen, but Phil isn't wasting seconds. He buttons his pants, tugs down his undershirt, and looks at Barton.

"Is there a reason you didn't just call? And why do I owe you baked goods?"

"Left your cell, sir. Tasha said you had already headed home, but I figured you would want your phone and you really wear sock garters?"

"I do, on occasion."

"Is this another one of your Captain America, Sharp Dressed Man things?"

"I'm sure it's hard to believe, but I simply don't like when my socks fall down. Does my choice in underclothes impact you somehow?" Phil is standing in his kitchen in socks, pants, and a t-shirt while the object of his very recent fantasy harangues him about his choice of socks. 

"'Underclothes.' Honestly." Barton shakes his head and chuckles. "Sorry to barge in on you, but I really did want to bring you your phone. Also, you looked like shit today, so I figured I'd make sure you hadn't succumbed to the plague again." Phil cocks an eyebrow and waits. "And possibly steal some leftover lasagna." Neither of them are looking at the pile of shoes and dress shirt nearby but they've evidently moved past the socks, so Phil puts Barton to work reheating food and goes to change properly into sweats and a different shirt. And no sock garters.

When Phil comes back into the kitchen, Barton has flipped the TV to some sort of documentary about the solar system and the lasagna is nearly ready. Together, they lounge on the couch and chat aimlessly about the few agents Barton has been training. There is space between them, but they both have their feet on the coffee table and Phil can feel his tension unwinding. Barton didn't catch him in the act and probably didn't even assume he had nearly walked in on Phil with his cock out because really, who would make that assumption? 

Phil is well aware of the robot rumors that follow him around, and has been known to contribute a few himself. Perpetually unamused and unaffected; that's Phil Coulson. Clint may be aware that Phil does have a personality and can make Phil chuckle with a well-timed pun, but even he wouldn't jump from "he laughs at my jokes" to "he was jerking off in his kitchen."

A lull in conversation and Barton just has to bring it up again: "But really. Sock garters?" 

"Are you waiting for me to apologize for keeping my socks up, Barton? Or are you offended by the thought of someone putting a little care into his appearance?" A little teasing, get Barton on the defensive, and the whole thing will be filed away in the "Phil Coulson is Trying Too Hard" folder and they can move on.

"No, it's that I'm pretty fucking glad I didn't know that about you." Barton laughs, but it's more sardonic than usual. "Sorry, sir. You know how I feel about you and your suits." Phil frowns. He doesn't, really. 

But Barton hasn't noticed his reaction and keeps going. "All buttoned up and pristine. Just another detail to that perfect fucking puzzle. And it's not even that you look like you walked out of a magazine page. You wear those suits and then you're terrifyingly good at everything you do. You're like the Agent's Agent, James Bond without the death wish and misogyny. And you're always so polite and collected, when you're telling me to take a shot or lecturing on field safety or whatever. Oh god, feel free to interrupt me any time now."

But Phil isn't interested in stopping Barton. Instead, he twists on the couch, staring at the flush on Barton's cheeks and the way he bites his lip.

"I jerked off thinking about you today." Phil hadn't meant to say it so abruptly, hadn't really planned on saying anything at all, but since Clint's mouth had run away from him, it only seems fair to return the favor. Clint sets his empty plate on the coffee table and looks faintly puzzled, so Phil says, "I thought about sucking your cock. I thought about running my tongue along the underside and the weight of you in my mouth and the cool air against my tongue when I pull off." 

"Jesus. And there you go, better than me even when it comes to dirty talk." Clint drops his head into his hands, sighs, and looks back up at Phil with a complicated expression. Phil flounders. 

"I wasn't aware that we were competing."

'Phil." It's the first time Clint has said his name this evening, and it sounds unexpectedly desperate and hurt. "Phil, no teasing. Please? Not about this." Clint's back is rigid and his relaxation from a moment before is gone as he turns his face away and says Phil's name. Phil backpedals. 

"Sorry. That was-- sorry."

"It's fine." Clint sounds defeated and he is still not looking at Phil. "I can keep it professional. You don't have anything to worry about." 

"I wasn't teasing, though. I mean, I was. But the thing I said about thinking about you--" Some tiny part of Phil's analyst brain finally grabs a hold of the situation. "Oh. No, hang on. We're campaigning for the same goal here. You saying that you would be interested in something-- that is, interested in sex. With me. You are, really?" So nice that the mere prospect of mutual orgasms reduces Phil to jumbled half sentences.

"Of course I am. I'm not an idiot." He peers at Phil, who catches his eye and hopes that whatever Clint sees on his face is convincing. "You _do_ want something too." Clint quirks a grin at him, looking far more confident than Phil feels. "Orgasms first; talk later."

Phil is surprised to find that he wants to wipe that grin away, wants to distract Clint and knock out all of his higher brain function until his eyes roll back and he's muttering aimless, breathy syllables. He plays a hunch.

"You don't really want me to stop talking, do you?" He pauses, and Clint shifts minutely against the couch. "Why don't you sit there and I'll sit here and I'll just talk a little more. Or not?"

"Yeah no. Talking is good. You talking is good. I'm gonna--" He pops the button on his jeans, then sits back and looks expectantly at Phil.

"Oh what. _Now_ you decide to wait for instruction? Fine. Start with this: grind against your hand." Clint's eyes widen but before Phil has a chance to panic that this was not the sort of talking Clint had in mind, he inhales slowly and follows Phil's suggestion, twisting his hips up into the pressure of his palm. With the fabric pulled taut, Phil can see that Clint is already getting hard. "Good. Unzip your pants and push them down to your knees. Keep your feet on the floor." Clint complies and settles himself into a comfortable slump.

"I see you're good at following directions when it suits you. How about this: unbutton your shirt. Leave it on but open, like that. Every view of you is nice, but that's a particularly good look on you. Debauched. And we're just getting started."

Clint huffs once and pulls an exaggerated "come hither" expression at Phil, who figures he should give Clint something else to concentrate on. 

"Get your hand wet. Slowly, slowly. I want to see your tongue trace each finger. Now wrap that hand around your cock. Don't move, just feel the weight--" 

"Wait. Stop." Clint gasps out and Phil freezes. "No no no, it's good. But. Will you tell me what you were thinking? You said you were thinking about me..." Clint trails off hesitantly and Phil finds himself doused with a need to cuddle this man and keep him safe forever. Instead he softly clears his throat.

"Yeah. I can do that." Phil bows to the inevitable and presses his palm against his own hardening cock, then shoves his hand under his waistband and sighs at the feel of his own cool fingers against his hot skin.

"I've thought about undressing you slowly and tasting each new square of skin that appears every time I undo a button, then laying you out on my bed so I can see the curve and shadow of your back. I've thought about running my fingers up the length of your spine. Digging my thumbs into the knots at the base of your skull hard enough to make your scalp tingle, and when I drag my hands away, you'll breathe deeper than you have in weeks.

"I want to find every knot every sore muscle and tension spot and rub it away. I wouldn't limit myself to your gorgeous back; I'd dig my fingers into your thighs and glutes, not just because I want to feel your ass against my palms, but because I want to feel those muscles properly relax for the first time in years. I want your body to turn languid under my hands, want to see the tension melting away." 

In the pause to catch his breath, Phil tightens his grip on his own cock briefly, just enough pressure to ground him. Clint hasn't slowed down despite Phil's pause. One hand is still sliding steadily up and down his cock, twisting slightly to curve around the head. The other is gripping his thigh, blunt nails pressing white crescent into flesh. Phil briefly wonders what it would be like to taste each of Clint's knuckles, then wrangles his brain back on track. 

"Next I'll start to open you up. I'll hold on to your hip as I work one slicked finger into you. You want to find friction in the sheets under you, but I want you focused on the feeling of my hands, the cool slickness of the lube and the stretch of first one then two fingers. 

"I could have you begging in minutes but that's not the goal today. I want you to anticipate each time my fingers brush your prostate. I could eat you out until you don't have words left, but instead I'll stick with just my fingers so I can tell you how strong you are, how beautiful you look coming apart for me. I'll keep my thrust so slow that I can count the heartbeats between them, but I'll fuck you with my fingers until you start to shake."

Phil pauses again to catch his breath and to check in with Clint, who has his head tipped back against the couch and is covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Clint's throat flexes and bobs as he swallows loudly, and his hand is moving slowly and steadily on his cock. Phil hastens to restart his monologue before the moment fizzles out.

"You're so good for me, taking everything. There's a cock ring in the bedside drawer but you don't want it. Don't need it. You'll hold off until I say just because I want you to. I'll give you a minute, then when you've caught your breath, when you're beginning to form coherent thoughts again, I'll shift you over to your back so I can hear you say my name and smile when you see me. 

"I'll add a third finger now, and to distract you from the burn I'll press sucking kisses down your chest, stopping when I reach your nipples. There I'll alternate hot kisses with cools gusts of air until they harden against my lips. And then, just because I can, I'll press my face into your left pec so I can feel your heartbeat thudding away under my jaw. Maybe I'll even suck a bruise onto your skin there, over your heart, my mark on your skin. 

"And then I'll swallow your cock. All the way, until the head bumps against the back of my throat. You'll be able to feel my breath on your stomach, my lips tight, my throat shifting as I swallow around you. I would practice for you, let you watch as I slid a toy against my tongue until I could take every inch. 

"I want to make you feel good, unimaginably good in every way. I think about rolling over again, letting you fuck my face until you come, but maybe another day. Today I'll pull back and press my tongue to your slit and suck hard so I can hear you groan, like I've pulled the air right out of your lungs."

Clint inhales sharply, his hand speeding up. As Phil watches greedily, he gasps then lets out a long, low groan, hips jerking sharply once-- twice-- and then collapsing back onto the couch. Phil is faintly surprised to realize that he's on the verge of coming too. And then Clint's strangled "Fuuuuck, Phil" sends him over the edge.

As they both pant into the silence, Clint topples sideways and lands with his head in Phil's shoulder. He smiles and Phil can't help but mash his face into Clint's hair, pressing an inelegant kiss to the crown of his head before flailing towards the tissue box, a remnant of last week's cold now helpfully sitting on the coffee table. A cursory bit of cleanup complete, Phil joins Clint in a couch nap.

Phil wakes slowly, conscious first of Clint's breath puffing against his neck. The clock tells him he's slept for less than an hour, so Phil untangles himself. Clint stirs but seems content to continue sleeping on a pillow instead of Phil's chest. 

Phil heads into the kitchen to make brownies, because what else is he going to do? Certainly not wake Clint; sleep is a precious thing and Phil is keenly aware of the trust Clint is showing him by napping so soundly on his couch. 

Working by rote, Phil allows his brain to collect the facts and prod at every angle of his impending conversation with Clint. Brownie mix and oil from the cabinet. Clint is a valuable asset and a friend. Eggs from the fridge. Their work dynamic is far more important than Phil's sex life. Cinnamon from the spice rack. Clint said he was attracted to Phil's suits but didn't elaborate further. Finally, as he slowly mixes all his ingredients, Phil contemplates whether to be mortified or just embarrassed. Getting off with a coworker is one thing, but explicit and detailed ownership fantasies aren't really first date material. 

He's pretty sure they can both be mature about it. He teases Clint about being an oversized child, but he knows that Clint is pretty self-aware. Possibly more than Phil, if he is being honest. But how will that conversation unspool? "Great sex. Wanna date?" Right. Even if Clint was interested in a more serious relationship, the chance that he would turn to Phil are slim, not when he has his pick of the agent pool. The "let's be fuckbuddies" proposal has merit, even if it is less than Phil really wants. 

Phil is more concerned with the potential for pretending it never happened. If Clint plays the evening off as nothing more than another shared meal, they will be back to camaraderie and Phil's sneaky fantasies. Except now Phil knows the sound of Clint's orgasm, and that knowledge has ballooned his crush into something larger and more overwhelming. Maybe it is paranoia, but if Phil's brain supplies graphic fantasies rather than insights on an op, his fumbling could put another agent in danger. He could distance himself from Clint to put a damper on his adoration, but Phil knows that Clint would stubbornly blame himself. 

Which leads Phil's brain to more disastrous avenues. What if Clint is fine with sex, just not Phil's brand of clingy, possessive sex? And what if, when Clint has a chance to think it through, he is creeped out by Phil's monologue? What if it is enough to screw up their working relationship, or Clint's trust in SHIELD? 

Phil is well aware of the less than stellar characters in Clint's past, and he's very much not interested in being yet another person who tries to own Clint Barton. _But you said it_ , Phil's malicious mind whispers. _You said you want to make him yours. How else is he supposed to interpret that? Sure, he sounded ready for action before you opened your mouth, but maybe it was just the prospect of sex that had him agreeing. Maybe now that he's gotten a peek into your ridiculous brain he'll bolt._

"Oh hey, are you baking 'thanks for not getting jizz on my couch' brownies?" Phil had heard Clint shuffling into the kitchen so he doesn't startle at the voice behind him. He does nearly drop the spatula when he registers what Clint has said. "What, you're the only one of us who gets to talk dirty?"

"Ah, no. Not sex brownies in any way." Phil's prepared for any sort of relationship talk. He's definitely not equipped to handle bantering about the sex they just had.

"Well technically, they can't be sex brownies because we didn't have sex."

"Clint." Phil's voice is strained as he struggles to get a hold of the conversation.

"Oh. 'Sorry but we're never doing that again' brownies?'"

"No. I--no. You said when you came in that I owed you baked goods? Jasper asked Maria out, so: brownies. I needed to think and maybe cool my brain a little and it's hard to do that when you're sleeping next to me. They're nothing fancy, but here." He holds a batter-covered spatula out to Clint, who takes it and immediately sets to work cleaning it off with his tongue. Phil tries not to watch too closely.

"I think I owe you an apology. That was a little intense." Phil frowns, trying to coalesce his no longer ordered thoughts into words. "I know you said you were interested, but that was-- There's no obligation." Clint doesn't respond and Phil can feel cold seeping into his gut. He sets the empty bowl in the sink and steps back. "If I've made things awkward, I want you to know that--"

"Phil, wait. Stop thinking for a sec. I do want, that and more and whatever you can give me. I have for a while. Yeah, the sex was good and it turns out that you have an extraordinarily dirty mouth. But the stuff you were saying about wanting to mark me and make me yours? God, it was you saying that you'd practice for me that finally made me come. I want that. And I want to be good for you too."

Phil lets out his breath at that, and crowds Clint against the counter, gripping Clint's open shirt front to give his hands something to hold. "You are good." Phil leans in for a chaste kiss, then continues as his words whisper against Clint's lips. "Clint. You are so good. Even when you're harassing junior agents or mooching my lasagna. You're bright and strong and ridiculous and I will forever cherish whatever parts of you that you chose to share with me. And I'm breezing right past the part where I said forever before we've had a proper date because I think there's been enough stuttering from me for one night."

"Did you stutter? I hadn't noticed." Clint leans back slightly to smirk at Phil. "Also you literally talked me into an orgasm; I can forgive a stumble or two."

"You--"

"Hush now." Clint untangles one arm from behind Phil and presses his finger against Phil's mouth.

Phil means to reply, but Clint's finger is cool where it touches Phil's flushed skin and he can't resist a taste. He parts his lips and nips gently at the pad, then soothes the pinch with his tongue. Clint lets out a strangled chuckle. 

"You are absolutely going to ruin me." He drags his finger down Phil's chin, then fists his hand into Phil's t-shirt. Phil takes the opportunity to slide his hands down Clint's back to palm his ass. 

"Maybe you'd better shut me up now." In the warm kitchen, surrounded by the smell of baking brownies and the steady thump of Clint's heart against his chest, Phil smiles happily.

"I think I can manage that." And with a careful application of kisses and a few judicious gropes, Clint does.


End file.
